THE HOLY FATHER ORDAINS
Despite adverse omens, I omitted no precaution to improve my chances.
I learned that the Bull against Luther was being cast in final shape
by Cardinal Accolti after a contest with Cardinal Pucci, both jealous
of their own skill as Latinists. The document might go to Leo at any
moment for final action. I therefore at once despatched a messenger
to the Pope’s hunting lodge, La Magliana (six miles up the Tiber)
requesting an immediate audience. As a token of loyalty I sent also
a manuscript of the Third Philippic of Demosthenes, which I had
purchased at Genoa, and which contained at least five paragraphs
lacking in the best copy in the Vatican. I was rewarded by a speedy
reply that “His Holiness would graciously see me to-morrow at noon in
the interval between the morning and afternoon hunting.”
In dealing with Leo, I at least understood my man. Any high moral
appeal would be valueless, not because he was in any sense immoral or
evil loving, but because he was essentially a temporal politician,
despite a large admixture of the tastes of an æsthete. To make this
clever, urbane, pleasure-loving son of Lorenzo the Magnificent
comprehend the soul-searchings of Luther was a task beyond angels.
Yet I believed Leo had his approachable side. “Let us then enjoy this
Papacy, seeing that God has given it to us” had been his alleged
remark when told of his election: and if only I could convince the
very secular and ambitious prince that banning Luther was pouring oil
on a truly great political flame, he might still be turned aside to
conciliation. This seemed my only chance.
In the morning I let Andrea dress me with the informal elegance
befitting an informal interview.
“And my own livery to-day, Eccellenza?” he asked.
“None at all,” I answered, and then even as his face lengthened and
protests began, I cast a glance about to be sure my other valets were
absent. “Andrea,” I continued, a hand on his shoulder, “you will have
other work. Either your master returns to you to-night the happiest
man in Italy, or he will return wholly defeated. Yet not defeated
only: every Dominican will be crying, ‘To San Angelo with him.’ Nay,
they may think it a case for Orlando the Moor.[9] For it is no light
thing which I risk this day. You will have ready fast horses, a few
trusty varlets, travel money, passports, everything needful for a
swift journey, so that I may leave Rome most suddenly before the
Monsignori can form too many schemes against me. You understand?”
“_Si, si_, Eccellenza!”
He bowed so low I could see his nose sticking betwixt his legs. I
knew I needed to say nothing more to him. Leaving him therefore to
care for all I had suggested, I took my way out to La Magliana.
It was a pleasant ride on the Via Campana, some six miles along the
right bank of the Tiber. I found that I was not alone in seeking an
audience with His Holiness. To my surprise I fell in with no less
a personage than the Archbishop of Bari, the original cause of all
my adventures. I eyed him awkwardly for a moment, but he veiled his
biretta affably, and drew his palfrey beside mine whilst our men
cantered behind.
“Believe me, illustrious conte,” he declared, “I have long since
realized who was responsible for that little adventure three years
ago--and--Santa Maria!--the prebend the Pope gave me then has more
than paid for the shock to my feelings. Inasmuch as I understand you
are no longer friendly with Forli, _certamente_ you are again my very
good friend.”
So we chatted amiably and I was pleased indeed to learn that the game
had been very abundant of late, for bad hunting meant that the Pope
would be in most atrocious humor. “Indeed,” Bari assured me, “only
‘two cross-bows’ this season can bring in a cartload of game--stags
and deer, as well as pheasants and hares. His Holiness will be
delighted to grant us all kinds of favors, the more so as he will be
glad of our company as a foil to the sombre fellow who went out to
him earlier in the day.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Why, Sylvestro Priario the Censor, to be sure. He carries the final
draught of the Bull against Luther the Heretic.”
“But the Pope can only consent to that in the full consistory.”
“Of course. The formal consent then, but the informal consent,
authorizing the notaries to have the document engrossed for the
regular sealing and publishing--that can be given to-day; probably
this noon before we depart. Ah! well--it was high time an end was
made to the pestilent fellow. I presume you heard quite a little of
him in Germany.”
I fear my answer was evasive, and my whole conversation from this
point stupid and wandering. I was letting my thoughts stray far
indeed from that venerable river road in the green Italian country. I
was thinking how that noon Leo de’ Medici, in the intervals betwixt
the hunting, was like to take that action which might affect the
lives, thoughts, souls of generations yet unborn; might set cities
flaming, armies marching; might array king against king, and nation
against nation. And all the while up in the far dome of the sky the
larks were singing, and the laughing, barefoot peasant maids went by,
driving on their sheep and tossing their bright cloaks to catch the
eyes of our ogling serving-men.
* * * * *
I allowed Bari to go first to the audience, and he soon came out
smiling, informing me that His Holiness was in excellent humor,
having run down a notably tall stag that morning. “He gave me the
abbey for my cousin almost before the words got out of my mouth!”
he reported. And so after brief interval, the scraping and bowing
gentleman-usher conducted me in, and I was again before the Pope of
Christendom.
The room was a gracefully decorated, airy apartment, as became a
hunting lodge. Perfumed air from the gardens blew in at the large
open windows. The frescoes on the wall were by Giulio Romano,--nymphs
and sea-gods on azure waves, the postures a little free, but not
really scandalous. A polite buzz was proceeding from a little group
of monsignori and secular noblemen who were standing around, all in
suitable hunting costume. Two or three handsome pages were moving to
and fro around a small, linen-covered table. In a high armchair, his
plate before him, eating heartily, sat Leo de’ Medici. The years had
added to his corpulency and the heaviness of his features. He wore
a gray Flemish jacket and high leather huntsmen’s boots; a Spanish
sombrero and a boar spear lay on the taboret beside him. As he looked
up, I fell on both knees dutifully, and the usher’s announcement
sounded.
“His Excellency the Conte di Palaestro.”
I was considering whether to approach and kiss the Pope’s hunting
boots, when His Holiness himself thrust back the armchair in rising.
A broad smile overspread his face. “Welcome, Gualtiero!” I heard his
deep voice saying, and he did me the singular honor of extending his
ring to be kissed, instead of advancing a foot.
As I rose from my salute, he seized my hands warmly, and looked about
the room with all the rapture of a lad greeting a long lost boon
companion.
“So long! So very long! And at last you are back. How I have missed
you. How often I have execrated Forli and Rocca for involving you in
that affair. I had thought of summoning you back to Rome earlier,
but I knew that you would come of yourself. I was very sure of it.
What a fortunate day! A great stag this morning, and now Gualtiero di
Palaestro to join in the hunt this afternoon. Surely I say a lucky
day!”
“If I may wax poetical,” I replied, in my best Latin, releasing my
hands and with another deep reverence, “the honor and fair fortune
is entirely my own. Do I not see again Sol, the illuminer of the
Earth, the terrestrial Apollo who sheds clear beams on mortal souls
groping in their darkness, or if my metaphor be not too forced, do I
not now reverence ‘Leo,’ who is no less the king of the kings of the
world, than the four-footed ‘Leo’ is the king of beasts? I cry your
Holiness’s judgment upon my figures of speech.”
“Excellent, Gualtiero, excellent,” cried the Pope, sinking back into
the chair which the pages promptly thrust again beside the table.
“Your three years in that barbarous North have not ruined your
excellent Latinity. After all”--this between large mouthfuls of his
favorite peacock sausages--“your Germans are not so desperate. Your
Magister Johann Eck, now in Rome, can speak very fair Latin--though a
somewhat greasy, unkempt creature himself. But why talk of Germany,
Gualtiero, why of Germany? _Peste!_ What with the troubles I’ve been
in touching the election of the Emperor (heaven grant he play me fair
as to my getting Ferrara!) and this heretic friar, I get no sleep
nights. I grow thin, Gualtiero; yes, thin, though my chamberlains
will not have it so, and pretend my garments show I am stouter. But
away with such trifles now. You have come on a noble hunting day.
I’m sure Cardinal Cornaro will lend you one of his horses for the
afternoon, if your steed isn’t suitable. And now while I eat you
shall tell me how you have managed to pass three years away from
Rome.”
Thus bidden, I narrated to the Pope what I truthfully could of my
doings in the North without trenching upon the topic of Luther, or
the affair of Ilsa, and making much of the problems connected with my
Regenstein vassals. I was hopeful the matter of the Bulls against the
heretic would not be laid before Leo ere evening, and as a favored
guest at the hunt I promised myself a thousand opportunities of
opening the ticklish subject during the afternoon, when of a sudden I
was interrupted.
Into the gay, informal company, like a shadow, intruded the black
gown of a sombre figure I knew overwell--Sylvestro Priario the
Censor. In his hand was a paper packet. With a gesture to an usher
he moved to the table and stood silent, like a gloomy pillar, until
he caught the Pope’s eye; then proffered a silent genuflection and
held out the document. Leo motioned for me to cease, and received the
paper, beckoning simultaneously for writing materials.
“A moment, only a moment, Gualtiero. Then you may continue your
fascinating adventures. You see how business pursues me even hither.
I am obliged to authenticate briefs and the like even on hunt days.
Was ever a pontiff so persecuted? Santa Maria--those saintly old
Popes who fed the Colosseum panthers were better off! Well--give me
the pen. Do I sign here?”
I felt the blood rush into my face. I knew my heart was beating
wildly. I had at least expected a chance to present my problem
fairly, and without too great prejudice. But the crisis was none of
my making. I must do what I could. I took a step nearer the table.
My eye met the dark eye of Priario, and instinctively we exchanged
hostile glances.
“Your Holiness,” I said, “may I do a very bold and uncourtly thing?
May I requite the marked graciousness you have just displayed to me
by asking a most impertinent question,--may I know the nature of this
paper presented by Monsignore Priario?”
The Pope looked up, surprised. One or two courtiers glanced at me
curiously. I had indeed done something beyond all precedent.
“Why, indeed, Gualtiero, you strange fellow,” rejoined His Holiness;
“this is the new Bull _Exsurge Domine_ against that firebrand Luther.
I must sign it that it may be presented in full Consistory in a few
days for ratification. Good heavens, man--why do you look at me thus
strangely? Have you taken poison?”
I fell on my knees before the Pope’s chair. I did my best to control
my voice.
“Hear me, your Holiness. What I ask is surprising and beyond all
precedent, yet for the Pope’s own sake do I ask it. For many reasons
I beg your Holiness not to assent to this Bull until I have been
heard to the contrary. It was for this very boon that I begged for an
audience.”
A kind of jar, of mental shock, seemed passing around the chamber.
The Pope looked at me in such amazement it was manifest he did not
understand all that I had said. Only the hollow hard tones of Priario
broke the momentary silence.
“His Holiness can hardly delay the notaries longer. The bull has been
drafted with the uttermost care, and delayed too much already. The
Conte di Palaestro certainly cannot claim the right to intervene in a
matter strictly of theology.”
The voice of the Censor broke the spell upon me. I rose. With _him_ I
could bandy words.
“Well said, Monsignore,” I retorted, leaving Leo to recover his
poise; “I intervene not in theology, but this is a matter of most
mundane politics. Sorely disloyal were I to His Holiness, forgetful
of all the favors showered by the Popes on the House of Palaestro, if
I held my peace, when rash theologians prepare such temporal woe for
the Holy See.”
“Rash theologians?” interposed Priario. “Does the Conte call them
‘rash’ and deny the case one of theology when this Luther is clearly
convicted of forty-one damnable theological errors, and of seducing
his countrymen to beliefs worthy of Moslem infidels?”
“I argue not for his opinions, pious Sir,” said I, standing
haughtily, “though I have heard learned doctors commend them. I speak
to His Holiness on other matters. Were Luther’s errors tenfold, still
would I ask this hearing.”
“Blessed San Paolo!” ejaculated the pontiff, still gazing on me,
bewildered; “are you returned just to set my court by the ears? You
and the Censor eye each other like wolves.”
“I have nothing against Monsignori,” I responded respectfully,
“but much against your Holiness’s ill-informed and precipitate
councillors.”
“Precipitate?” cried the Pope. “Have we not deliberated informally
and in Consistory until I am weary and ill? Your German Eck, and
all the Italians--all with their jangling counsels? Do you think
the drying up of my German revenues is so delightful that I would
draw out the matter longer? Ask a new lordship for Palaestro; a
chamberlainship at court; anything in reason. But no more of this
accursed friar!”
“Your Holiness,” I let a little steel ring in my voice, “when the
French were in the land, and Charles VIII thundered on to Rome, my
Italian grandfather held our castle fast for St. Peter. My German
father died at Ravenna fighting the Pope’s battle. My sword has ever
been at your Holiness’s summons. Therefore I have a right to speak
to the Pope in this high matter, despite the frowns of Monsignore
Priario.”
Leo laid down his pen. “Proceed,” he commanded.
He twirled his thumbs and moved uneasily. Clearly he was not pleased
at me, but I persisted.
“Your Holiness: you will graciously recall that through no volition
of my own I was forced to return to my paternal estates in Germany.
In Germany I was suffered to witness the very birth-pangs of this
controversy that now vexes the Holy See. I beheld the doings of
Tetzel, and if ever a robber clutched for money, he was that
robber.” Next, briefly as I might, I told how Luther was drawn into
the great debate, and how he had acted from the purest of motives,
concluding, “then the storm spread. Luther is human. He has met
attack with attack. Confronted with anathemas where he had expected
comfort, what wonder he has denounced many things--even the Pope’s
prerogative--when your Holiness, ignorant of the true situation, has
been unable to silence the braying tongues of angry busybodies.”
“A word,” interposed the darkly frowning Priario; “let me ask the
Conte this: even conceding, what is impossible, that Tetzel were
indeed a most indiscreet, nay objectionable, man, if this friar were
truly a devout son of the Church, would he not rather ‘cover the
nakedness of his Mother’--as commends the Scripture, and endure in
silence, than blazon abroad this great scandal to the undermining of
faith and the confounding of the pious laity?”
“If your question needs an answer, Monsignore,” I rejoined with
acidity, “you can know best whether St. Peter Damiani, Pope Gregory
VII otherwise called Hildebrand, and St. Bernard of Clairvaux
endured in silence the evils they saw rending the Church? Do
Christians so ill then to venerate these saints?”
The Pope had been following me keenly. The thrust of my answer was
not lost to him. His face lighted as Priario winced, and his tone was
more friendly.
“A good arrow, Gualtiero. You always were clever in argument,
although to hear _you_ wage war for this fellow makes me misdoubt my
ears! But you said you had no theological reasons for me, but only
worldly ones--how is that?”
“Your Holiness is good to correct me. I am not here to excuse
Martin Luther. I am here to say this,--I have been in Germany
now many months. I have met men and women of all ranks and
conditions,--princes, nobles, burghers, peasants, as well as clergy
and monks. Your Holiness has been ill-served by your agents and
newsmongers. A spirit of hostility against the Holy See exists in
Germany that I fear the Pope’s intimates have been too selfish
courtiers to report to him truly.”
“Good God!” ejaculated Leo, flushing, “do you tell me I am so hated!
Wherein have I oppressed the Germans, pray? I surely sent the ‘Golden
Rose’ to the Elector of Saxony. Ungrateful fellow not to surrender
Luther in return for it!”
“Your Holiness is not hated personally. I have heard you called ‘a
lamb in the midst of wolves.’ But the hatred against the Holy See,
against the system of Papal Revenues, the disposition of Church
offices in Germany by the Pope’s intimates, against many other things
connected with Rome, is blown up very fierce. I have heard many
Germans assert it were time to cast off allegiance to Rome altogether
and set up a national church for themselves.”
The Pope’s thick lips twitched, Priario’s face grew black as
thunder, and he broke out with: “Santa Maria! That is schism,
blasphemy, and heresy all in one. Do we live again in the days of
Arius and Donatus?”
“These are not pleasant words, your Holiness, not the words of a
servant craving your high favor,” I drove on desperately, “but the
words of a servant who speaks sober truth. The whole land of Germany
is ready to rise against the Church and the Holy See even as a
hundred years ago Bohemia rose, only the blaze will be twenty-fold
hotter, even as Germany is greater than Bohemia.”
“You exaggerate, Gualtiero,” replied Leo, trying strenuously, it
seemed, to recover his easy poise, and appear calm. “I’m sure you
exaggerate. It is true Miltitz and Caïetanus have written somewhat
of a misguided feeling in this heretic’s favor, but nothing like
to this. You are bewitched, Gualtiero. You always were a fellow
of enthusiasms and fancies. A few days in the Trastevere with the
pleasant donnas there will cool your brain and make you think better
of yourself--”
I fear I cut the Pope short with an impatient gesture.
“I am aware, your Holiness,” I declared, “how little my past life
gives weight to my present mission. Yet this one thing I entreat.
Postpone signing this paper. Give me formal audience to-night. Hear
me with that calm wise judgment which makes Leo de’ Medici honored
and respected as wise, no less than holy, throughout the world.
You will then see that I talk no folly when I urge, ‘delay, do not
enkindle all Germany, which is ready to rise in behalf of this
friar.’”
“Do you talk indeed seriously, Gualtiero,” said the Pope, looking at
me shrewdly.
“By the soul of my father and mother I do.”
“I do not like it,” repeated Leo, “I do not like it. The fellow has
had every consideration. I remember what Caïetanus wrote to Rome:
‘I will argue no more with that beast. Those eyes of his are too
deep-set in his head, and his looks have too much meaning in them.’
He is clearly a heretic. If I spare him now, all Rome will laugh at
me.”
“A less serious calamity, your Holiness,” I ventured, “than to
anathematize him, and have the anathema end in empty thunder, amid a
great German schism.”
Leo again knotted his fingers painfully. He was manifestly in sore
doubt.
“Priario,” quoth he, after a pause, “what do you reply?”
The legalist’s slow jaws opened sententiously. “Holy Father, the
Conte has argued of things impossible. Germany will not espouse the
cause of this desperate friar. If Germany did, her fate would become
a by-word and hissing through Christendom. As Vicar of Christ and
responsible to God for the feeding of His sheep, your duty is plain.
Let me cast it in a syllogism. _Prima_, the Church plainly teaches
heretics must burn. _Secunda_, Luther is manifestly a heretic.
_Conclusio_, Luther must burn! No other answer is possible.”
“Well, Gualtiero,” asked the Pope nervously, “what have you to say?”
“That Luther is not a heretic until the Pope formally declares him
such, and there are many reasons why this should not be done.”
“Ah, if I had not to decide! If I had not to decide!” Leo’s hesitancy
was painful to behold. The apartment was very still. Priario and
I stood silent. Then all unwarned a clear, sweet blast from a
huntsmen’s bugle pealed in at the casement. Long and silvery it
rang,--the summons for the grooms to prepare the horses for the
afternoon chase. As at an omen the Pope seized the pen. Even as the
notes died I saw him signing the packet. He cast it from him with a
sigh of relief.
“The hunt is waiting. I can dally no longer. Your arguments are
impossible. _Fiat justitia!_ Let the heretic burn.”
Priario’s eyes shot flames of triumph, as he caught up the paper.
“ROME HAS SPOKEN!” he proclaimed so that all could hear him.
“Rome has spoken,” I answered him, a little hoarsely, “but mark you,
Monsignore, Germany will speak to-morrow.”
* * * * *
That evening, just at sundown, I turned on my horse as my company
rode up the Janiculum. By the church of San Pietro in Montorio we
halted for a moment. Below me in the evening light I saw spread far
the Holy and Eternal City, the domes and towers of the churches,
the great mass of the Vatican, the tawny pile of the Colosseum, the
innumerable palaces, the monuments of eld; behind all, the Latin
hills and the deepening blue and gold of the Italian sky. My heart
was stirred. I knew I was leaving Rome and Italy forever.
Unhappy Leo, generous prince, munificent art patron, lover of poetry,
kindly master! How as secular king or Emperor would not thy name be
praised!
And thou, O Italia! Italia! thou with thy hot bright beauty, beauty
of sky and mountain and river, beauty of artist, of sculptor, of
poet, thou land set to lead the world up to the God-like, thou to
whom God hast given every grace, every talent! Over thee Christ must
have wept as over Jerusalem, having promised to cherish thee “even as
a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings,--and thou wouldest not.”
For thou, O! Italia, hast cast thy birthright away. Thou hast burned
Savonarola, thou hast endured the infamies of the Borgia, thou hast
humbled thy body to France and Spain, thy soul to the worldlings who
know not Christ. Therefore thy crown passes to the North, and men
perhaps shall come from far, to wander through thy storied cities,
to gaze on thy eloquent pictures, and to return, journeying away
from the pageant of thy fading past to their lands of the potent
present....
“Ride on, Andrea,” I commanded; “We are going back to the Regenstein.”
FOOTNOTES:
[9] The Pope’s executioner.